Nightclub Seduction
by clarity
Summary: Snape tries to mess with a muggle, but his plan doesn't go well for him (or her)...
1. Default Chapter

Note: This is best read with Garbage's Queer playing, as the music is playing in my head while I write it. And, of course, it's in the story. If you don't have access to such stuff (or you hate Garbage, which I admit is possible), just put on the song that makes you feel like you are dancing in warm honey, or being made love to by a ghost.  
  
I am lost in the middle of the dance floor, alone in this club. I wonder why my friends insist on dragging me to these idiotic places, where they immediately run off to find their dates, and I am left to fend for myself. The men in here repulse me; all they are after is a quick bout of something sweaty and sticky in the toilets, then back out for a new piece of prey. I am not for such Neanderthalic things.  
  
I rock slowly to uninspiring music. I am on the more unfashionable dance floor, apparently; there is only a group of fortysomething spring chickens dancing over in the corner. A few people wallflower at the edges.  
  
I notice a man watching me. He is tall, with long black hair that reaches to his shoulders. This is not the most gripping feature about him though, nor is it his long black cloak and strange dark clothes. It is his eyes. They stare at me unblinkingly. I feel as if he is reading what is written in my mind.  
  
Uncomfortable, I look away, but my gaze is drawn back to him again. He is still staring at me with an intensity that is frightening. Somehow, the crowds around me do not comfort me. I draw my gaze away from him again, having to concentrate on staring at the opposite corner of the room. I do not feel threatened, but, even though he is at least two metres away from me, it feels like he is too close. It's not so much frightening, I guess, as unsettling. The unfamiliar.  
  
I move away from the dance floor to the bar, all the while telling myself I am being silly. As I stand trying to get the overworked, underpaid bartender's attention, I try not to notice the couples around me. All of a sudden I feel desperate and alone, as if I have been left behind.  
  
I take my drink and retreat to an abandoned corner of the bar. I watch the ice melt in my glass as the ice melts for the couple next to me, who appear to be attempting sex by penetrating each other with their tongues. I am embarrassed for them, and ignore them as best I can.  
  
My glass is almost empty as I see the man approach the bar. The feeling of being read from the inside returns, and I move back into the shadows. He steps up to the bar at the other end without even glancing in my direction. He stares impatiently at the bartender, who is busily negotiating an interlude for himself later in the evening. The disgust written on his face is so plain that it almost seems to me that the bartender has done something to personally offend him in the past. The bartender feels the gaze, apparently, for he quickly walks over to the man, and meekly takes his order. He pours brandy into a glass, liquid amber fire from the shelf where the real alcohol is kept, not the watered-down stuff all other customers get. The man pays him and walks off.  
  
He did not look at me, nor even in my direction. For some reason, I feel bereft.  
  
Another man walks up to me and asks me to dance. He doesn't look a bad sort, does not look me up and down as he is purchasing me. I agree, if only for something to do. The brief dance is over in a few minutes, and I politely thank him, refuse his offer of a drink, and walk back over to the more unfashionable dance floor, which is more crowded now as the night moves on.  
  
I take up residence in the furthest corner, keeping an eye out in the dim likelihood that one of my friends should shake off their amorous activities and come looking for me. At least, this is what I tell myself. The gaze of the man in black on the other side of the room fixes on me as soon as I enter, and does not waver- I have not looked at him, but I feel it all the same. It sends a shiver through me.  
  
Eventually I can resist no longer. I look to the other side of the room, and my gaze is pinned by his dark eyes. Even though I stand with my back against the wall, I feel as though I am travelling towards him, being drawn to him by the force of those eyes. Suddenly, his gaze breaks. I look over to see that the man I had danced with has entered the room. I pull back even further into the shadows, as he quickly glances around the room, then leaves again. The dark man looks back at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. I feel ashamed, somehow, of dancing with the other man, feel like a school girl who, late in bloom, takes the first boy who will bother to ask her out. The eyebrow drops, and his head tilts slightly as he studies me. I feel like everything I am is being scrutinised, like a specimen under a microscope.  
  
A new song comes on; at least, I think it has come on, though it feels more like it is inside my head than coming from the speakers dotted around the room. I do not recognise the opening strains, but begin to move to them. The music washes over me. Unable to withstand the sharp edges of the man's gaze I look away; moving, even slightly, in this dance makes me feel naked to him. I can't prevent myself from moving to it, however. The music takes me over, and I close my eyes, swept up in the rhythmic sensuality of it.  
  
The lyrics penetrate my head. A woman's voice, slightly sarcastic, full of cynicism and temptation, sings.  
  
Hey boy take a look at me,  
  
Let me dirty up your mind  
  
My eyes drift open, and I am startled to find that I am closer to the man now, halfway across the dance floor. I should feel foolish, I remotely contemplate. I should feel strange, dancing by myself in front of a stranger. I do not. His eyes entrance me. His look is that of an uninterested party, of a king inspecting a commoner. I feel safe.  
  
I can strip away your hard veneer,  
  
See what I can find  
  
No one else notices me as I dance in isolation. The room begins to fade away, the only objects in this universe being the rhythm of the music, the words, and two dark eyes.  
  
This is what he pays me for,  
  
Let me show you how it's done,  
  
You can learn to love the pain you feel,  
  
Like father like son  
  
Dancing underneath that gaze is like being slapped during sex; pleasurable pain. I am terrified; I am seduced; I am angry; I am entranced. He doesn't even blink.  
  
The cruellest of the cruel  
  
I am as an insect to him. He shows no passion in my slow seduction, merely polite observation of effect.  
  
You choke behind your smile  
  
A fake behind the fear  
  
The queerest of the queer  
  
The woman sings in my head, and his eyes extol the meaning of her words. As the music increases, I see his eyes change. They become, if it is possible, even more intense. They darken, and for the first time roam over my body.  
  
I know you're dying to  
  
A rush of power flows into me with the realisation that this man is attracted to me; he wants me. I experiment with small movements, swaying my hips slightly, dipping my shoulders. His lips part slightly, his breath comes quicker. I feel the pulse of the music in my chest, a heartbeat that links us both. I move my body through the syrup that flows between us, a slight smile playing on my face as his eyes follow me, tracing the contours of my figure.  
  
I know what's good for you,  
  
(You can touch me if you want)  
  
His eyes flicker back up to my face. He is the one who is scared now.  
  
I bet you're dying to  
  
His eyes no longer command me- it is I who command as I move.  
  
(You can touch me if you want)  
  
I feel his mental squirming.  
  
I know what's good for you  
  
I bite my lip to hide a smile.  
  
(You can touch me if you want)  
  
My arms raise above my head, smoothing along my body as they drop. It feels like his touch.  
  
But you can't   
  
The man's face is pale as he pants for me.  
  
stop.  
  
His eyes flicker. With a rush, the spell is broken. The black sparseness of the universe disappears. Around me, what was space slowly fills with bodies clumsy and streaked with sweat. Gaudy lights cloud my vision.  
  
I am suddenly ashamed of my adventure. The lights attack me, revealing my behaviour in cold social form; forward, brazen, uncareful. I take a step back, aware that I am too close to the stranger, though a metre away. When I am safely stationed at the wall again, I risk a glance in his direction. He is gone. The music, which entranced my soul, now sounds tinny and unrefined.  
  
I stand in the shadows, my body still pulsing to a beat only I can hear.  
  
The decision to leave is not so much made as a foregone conclusion. I cannot stand being here any longer, and my friends are not coming back. I rush from the room, down the stairs and out the door, feeling the cold shock of misty rain on my arms. Quickly, I summon a taxi and hop in, just as the rain begins to fall in earnest.  
  
The taxi driver's window is open for some reason, letting the rain spatter in freely. I watch the wet drops of rain slowly cover the inside of the car door, and feel cold spatters on my hot skin. They are like chilly kisses.  
  
***  
  
I am alone again, this time by choice. I do not know why I have come out again. My friends suggested an outing at another club this evening; my refusal came as no surprise to them. My arrival here again comes as a surprise to me.  
  
My dreams were haunted last night, with a cloying darkness that brushed against my skin but could not be grasped.  
  
I twirl the stem of a wine glass in my fingers, watching as the dark red liquid swirls against its encasement. Blood. I can feel my pulse on my throat as I remember the man from the night before, a throbbing I have noticed several times today.  
  
I glance up, looking around the club for the fiftieth time. It is still dotted with groups here and there; always with the odd man willing to give me a leer if my gaze should linger on him. I feel tarnished by this place. I feel ashamed of the impulse which led me here. I will find no dark lord here tonight; it is merely my imagination, and a little alcohol, that created him the night before.  
  
I turn to leave, placing the half-full glass of bad red on the bar and straightening my clothes as if to cleanse myself of the club. It was stupid to come here.  
  
On my way down the stairs I am confronted by the dark man. He is on the third step up; I do not know why I notice that particular detail. He looks up swiftly at my descent; the same curiosity, the same compulsion I have been feeling is buried in his gaze.  
  
After a frozen moment, I continue down the stairs. There is no choice- people queue up behind me. I pass him, managing to shift my gaze away from him. Moving past him is like being branded with a hot iron. I feel what is impossible to see, his head turning as I walk out the door.  
  
I am out on the street, shivering in the cool air of 1am. I do not know what to do. The night is not over yet, I feel.  
  
I am certain that if I move, I will be followed. I am as certain of this, as I am uncertain of why I told my friends that I would be remaining home this evening.  
  
Logical thought takes over as I begin to walk down the street. What am I doing? This man is a stranger, a threatening one. It is lunacy to lead him anywhere, especially this late at night. Panicking, I step into a dark alleyway nearby, hiding in the shadows. He passes by within a few minutes, and I let out a silent breath. Darkness sweeps behind him, intoxicating as a rich perfume.  
  
When he is safely gone, I emerge from the alleyway and begin to walk down the street. I reprimand myself for my foolishness. Of course the man wasn't going to follow me- my overwrought imagination has created the whole situation. I am a foolish woman out by herself on a chilly Sunday morning.  
  
I wander down the street, in need of a drink before I go home. The feeling that brought me out has still not left me, though I continue to berate myself for my foolishness. Eventually I come across a small, shady bar. It doesn't look that much, but I am not out for classiness this evening.  
  
There are very few people in the tiny bar, small groups here and there. The place is filled with shadows and dusty red velvet. I am pleased; it exactly suits my mood.  
  
I sit at the bar, uncertain of what I want to drink. My mind drifts off as I wait. I think about what has led me here. Perhaps I have been lonelier than I thought. My friends tolerate rather than like me, I am sure, for I am quite different to them and rarely give encouragement. I like being alone. I like solitude. Still, I am occasionally grateful for their friendly pressuring; it keeps me from complete isolation.  
  
I rest my cheek in my hand. I like my life. My usual contentment, however, seems recently to have deserted me. I do not know what to do to fix it.  
  
I am startled out of my reverie by the plonk of a glass on the wood in front of me. I stare at the wine glass, filled with what is surely a good red wine. I look up, startled, to see the bartender walking away. Is it customary to serve customers unasked in this place?  
  
Suddenly my eye captures a shadow at the opposite end of the bar. It is the dark man. He sits with a glass of the same red wine in front of him, so I am assured that this glass was his doing. His face is expressionless as he stares at me. There is no friendly smile, no inclination of the head, no raising of a glass in acknowledgment of what he has done. He simply watches to see what I will do.  
  
Cautiously, I raise the glass to my lips and take a small sip. It is a savoury red, spicy and full. The liquid rolls over my palate, causing sensation in my tastebuds, and slides down my throat with a slight heat. My lips are wet as I put the glass down; my tongue darts out in reaction, licking off the wine's residue. The man's eyes never leave mine as I sip; his eyes darken as I drink.  
  
We sit staring at each other in a timeless bubble. People move around us, but to me it feels as if we are in a glass cage. His eyes are dark and deep, but tonight they do not hold me as they did last night, they do not demand and take. I feel his curiosity, strengthening my feeling of power. I feel on an equal footing, like we are two tigers circling each other.  
  
He raises his glass to his lips, and I am subjected to the same sight as I performed before. I see the liquid glisten on his lip a moment before it is gone.  
  
My cheeks feel hot. This mindsex is exquisite and painful.  
  
A breeze drifts in as the door behind me opens, and a chorus of loud voices invades the warm darkness. I recognise these tones, and close my eyes with a groan as I realise my friends have chosen this place as their after-club wind down. I hear an exclamation, followed by my name, a minute before I turn to greet them. The man's eyes are displeased behind me.  
  
`Hey!' My friend Claudia looks more shocked than hurt. `I thought you were staying home tonight?'  
  
`I changed my mind,' I say quietly.  
  
My friend Louise also rounds on me, her bounciness annoying in this room. `So you darted off without us, eh?'  
  
`I needed a drink,' I respond.  
  
Their boyfriends for the night- Rick and Darren, I think they are called- interrupt, sweeping aside my friends' suspicions in their happiness to find someone else to play with.  
  
`We need drinks,' says the one I think is Darren. `What's your poison?'  
  
`I'm not sure,' I answer, glancing at the stranger at the other end of the bar. My answer is more to myself than a reply to the question. Louder, I say, `Um- red. Wine,' I add, just in case this Darren person is the cloud-brained being I suspect he is.  
  
My friends noisily group around me, chatting and remarking on the events of the evening. My silence is not unusual, but possibly-Rick notices, and, obviously thinking me shy, begins to chat. I sip my wine and smile and nod, only half-paying attention. He is nice enough, I suppose- actually quite a diamond in the rough compared to my friends' usual choices of date. He notices my distraction and glances at the other side of the room. I feel it when his eyes light on my dark stranger.  
  
`Ah, I think I've discovered the reason you've come out tonight,' says Rick, with a smile. `Keen, isn't he?'  
  
I send him a polite smile, not particularly wanting to encourage this line of thought. `It's more likely that he's stoned. He's been staring at things ever since I came in.' It's not exactly a lie; he's been staring at me, I think with a trace of smugness.  
  
`I guess you're right. He's staring at something else now,' says Rick, and I hastily glance up to see that the man is, indeed, staring at something else- or rather, someone else: a blonde over in the corner whose drunken meanderings disgust me on sight.  
  
`Don't worry- I'm pretty sure Darren's gonna get stoned later on.' I raise and eyebrow at Rick, and he smiles and continues, `More freaky stoned-person watching action to look forward to, if it's what turns you on.'  
  
I am caught by surprise, and laugh out loud. Rick is turning out to be a relatively okay guy. My action draws the gaze of my dark man back to me; I glance over and my breath is taken away by the fire in his eyes. It is like a thunderstorm sweeping through me.  
  
I try to relax and chat with my friends, all the while feeling dark eyes perusing me. I cannot keep my glances from him. Eventually, Claudia gets bored with talk, wanting something more physical to occupy her time. The music playing is not the type for dancing, too slow for Claudia's usual taste, but she dances anyway. A gleam of lust lights up Rick's eye as he watches her slow gyrations, and he joins her on an impromptu dance floor.  
  
My other friends join them, as do several other people from around the bar. I watch them without surprise. Claudia will do anything she wants, whenever she wants, which usually involves being the centre of attention. She is just one of those types of girls. I am glad. Now I can focus my spotlight across the bar.  
  
I turn to find the dark man watching me intently. I'm not sure why, but I feel that he is laughing, even though his face is expressionless. My friends evidently amuse him, or perhaps I do. There is no longer equality in his look; he is looking down on me, I think.  
  
Anger rises in me swiftly. He knows nothing about me. I glance away in disgust. This man is far too quick to judge me.  
  
I order a brandy from the bored bartender, and swirl the balloon in my fingers. Slowly, the liquid warms in my palm. I watch as the amber catches the lights, twinkling back at me. I tell myself that I do not care that this stranger's gaze is still directed toward me; why would I be concerned about the opinions of a judging stranger? I raise the glass and take a small sip of the warm fire. As it races down my gullet, it makes me shiver. When I shiver, I feel the stranger's eyes float over me, caressing me.  
  
I decide I am too drunk.  
  
I put the brandy aside, not wanting to drink any further. I glance up at the stranger, and see that his head is tilted to one side; he is considering me. I watch him with hungry eyes. I want him to want me again.  
  
I play with a box of matches that are sitting nearby. An image comes into my mind. I imagine what his reaction would be if I was to light a match, to hold it until it was almost reaching my fingers. I wonder what his reaction would be if I were to drop the match in the brandy, turning metaphorical fire into physical. I think- I think he would be pleased. I think he would be pleasured.  
  
I look down at the wood of the bar and smile to myself. I do not think the bartender would be pleased or pleasured, and I am sure my friends would think that I was insane. I am insane. I am in a bar at 3am waiting for a stranger to stare at me some more. I look at the brandy in the glass, and push it away. I really need to stop drinking. I push a strand of hair away from my face, resting my head in my hand, closing my eyes for a second. I need to go home.  
  
I gather my coat and bag, and stand to leave, but as I pass by Darren, who is dancing in the way that only the very drunk can, he grabs me and twirls me around. His inexpert Fred Astaire impression would be funny on a sunny afternoon, but in a chilly early morning it is too much. I attempt to extricate myself, but for every hand I push away another seems to manifest. Eventually he swings me around and lets me go, causing me to lose balance and stagger ungracefully across the floor. I am caught by Rick, who sets me on my feet with a smile.  
  
I attempt to communicate with my friends the message that I am leaving, but they are all too drunk to understand. Claudia puts her arms around me and dances me around, all the while telling me what a great friend I am and that we should do this more often. I dance with her if only to keep the peace.  
  
The music slows even further, turning into a sultry, bassy beat. Claudia won't let me go and now, in compliance to the illogic that seems to be elemental to some of the male of the species, men are beginning to watch. Claudia moves to the music, and I can't help but smile at the way the music has taken her over.  
  
She smiles up at me, then glances over my shoulder.  
  
`That guy's really got the hots for you,' she says, and I guess she must mean one of the barbarians that dot the dance floor. She tilts her head, and I see the drunken mischief in her eye just as she smiles and says, `Go for it!'  
  
I feel a push. Claudia's face retreats from me, laughing. I feel the world tilt, and am a split second from panic when two warm hands clasp around my ribs and I fall back against a hard body.  
  
It takes me a moment to realise what has happened and collect my thoughts. I see Claudia turn to Nick and begin to dance. I see Louise stare at me incredulously. I feel the warm shock from the close contact of the body behind me, feel the tingle of his hands pressing against my ribs, that place that no social touch usually reaches. I take a steadying breath, and attempt to regain my feet.  
  
`I am so sorry,' I say, as I straighten and attempt to turn around. The hands at my ribs slide down to my waist and I look up at their owner. The feeling of drugged ecstasy rolls over me as his dark eyes look back.  
  
My hands are against his chest, but he does not release my waist. Unable to bear the embarrassment of meeting his gaze, my eyes drop to his chest, where my hands rest against his black shirt. I am startled, and push against his chest to try and back away. It takes a second to realise that he is still holding on to me, and that he is not letting go because he doesn't want to. When the realisation dawns, heat creeps over my cheeks. The fact that we are touching each other, or rather the pleasure I find in it, makes me embarrassed and awkward, lost in that moment just before a crush reaches its realisation in a kiss.  
  
Finally, I look up at him. I should say something. I open my mouth, but my brain screeches to a halt. Words seem superfluous.  
  
He is staring at my mouth, eyes intent and just a touch curious. His serious expression reminds me that I have fallen into a stranger, and to any sane person am leaning on him in a fairly untoward manner without having explained.  
  
`I'm sorry,' I say, my voice dry and soft. `My friend-'  
  
I am stopped by the harsh flicker in his gaze. It feels like scraping against broken rock. He does not seem pleased at the mention of my friends. His hands tighten on me, drawing me infinitesimally closer. Somehow, we have moved away from the group dancing on the floor, though I don't recall moving. I stare up into his eyes as he stares into mine.  
  
The feeling I experienced the night before returns. I think we are dancing, but I believe that perhaps the universe is swaying around us instead. I am entirely caught up in the sensation he is drowning me in; his hands, his shirt, his chest, his body, his face, his eyes.  
  
I pull back from the power of it, disturbed by the way he takes me over. A sneer forms on his expression, subtly expressing that I am doing exactly what he would have expected. I grow angry. He is assuming things about me, taking a position of superiority that he doesn't deserve.  
  
My anger shows on my face, I know it. He smiles at me, deriding my ire. Resolve stiffens in me. I will not let him have the upper hand. His confidence in his own superiority is entirely too smug.  
  
My hands flatten on his chest, feeling heat beneath his shirt. I lower my eyes, allowing him to think me defeated. With deliberate slowness, I move my hands up his chest, feeling the minute friction between the material and my hand. I do this so slowly that even I am holding my breath, waiting for when it is over. His head is tilted down, watching my hands, his heart thudding beneath my hand as I slowly, slowly slide it upward. The sensation is intensely palatable.  
  
Eventually, gradually, my hands grasp his shoulders, then rest atop them. My gaze travels up to his face, and I am careful to keep my expression innocent. It would not do to be provocative to a stranger.  
  
His eyes are fire. I had thought them black, cold, but now I see that they are heated dark chocolate. His breathing is coming shallow and quick.  
  
His hands are tight and hot at my waist, and I become aware that our bodies are pressed together, moving together as one. There is nothing improper about this stance; his hands do not drift anywhere I could object to, he does not attempt to grind his hips against mine. Everything else about the sensation however is positively indecent. Adding any further sexuality would be tasteless.  
  
His eyes slowly lose their dazed look and become fierce. His hands loosen slightly on me, withdrawing from the fury we have created with our bodies.  
  
`Do you think you are playing?' he says, startling me. This is the first time I have heard his voice, and it is everything it should be; low, dangerous, velvet.  
  
I tilt my head slightly and raise an eyebrow.  
  
`Do you really think you can play with me?' He smiles nastily. He is trying to back away, trying to laugh at me, but I can see what he is doing. I smile broadly. He is not the only one who can laugh. His eyes grow furious. `You have no idea, little minx. No idea at all.'  
  
He clutches me tighter, pulling me up against him with a rough tug. I am forced to look into his eyes, and there I see...  
  
I see writhing flames, people and things being destroyed in green fire. I see pain, I see the atrocities of what has happened and what is yet to come. I see him.  
  
He releases me, and I stand back, gasping. The air drifts between us, the length where our bodies touched feeling cold after his intense heat. He is looking down on me, looking with pure disdain.  
  
I reach back my hand and slap him, hard. His head flings to the side, his eyes widening in shock. He whips his head back to look at me, surprise evident in his eyes.  
  
`You know nothing about me.' I say. `Nothing at all. You hadn't even bothered to look for my intelligence before you insulted it. You know nothing about me because you assumed I was something else.' I back away, trembling within. I will not let him see how upset I am. `Goodbye.' I straighten my skirt and leave, before the shock on his face can turn to anger.  
  
I walk home, and am chilled to the bone. I will probably get a cold, I am probably risking being mugged and raped, but I take out my fury with my feet, consuming the distance to my home. I berate myself the entire way, and return once more alone to my cold bed, shivering until the dawn comes.  
  
******  
  
I watch as the girl walks out of the door, still gasping in shock. It has been a long, long time since anyone has struck me; in fact, I cannot remember anyone ever slapping my face at all, not even in youth.  
  
I should never have come here. Not just tonight, but into the Muggle world at all. It is a habit that began in boyhood; entertaining oneself by venturing into a Muggle bar and messing about with the Muggles there. It is a long time since I came to do harm to them- such things no longer amuse me- but watching the machinations of these unmagicked brutes does relieve the boredom that settles over me after a long term at Hogwarts. At least I can be assured that the supine condition of my life there is far, far better than it could have been.  
  
I saw the girl fairly early in the evening. The way she was just standing there, alone, was striking. My experiences with these affairs is that the object is to mix and touch as much as possible. She, however, stood alone in the crowd, and was apparently unconcerned about it.  
  
The second thing that drew my attention was the look of utter boredom and disdain that wasn't on her face. The boredom and disdain were there, of course, but she was doing her best to avoid showing them, even though she made no move to participate in the activities flowing around her. She simply stood, as if waiting for the night to be properly over so she could leave.  
  
She must have felt my stare, which is not surprising, as many have come to live in fear of it. She glances at me, then away, then back again. This game is one of the many that people seem to play, though I have never been able to grasp why; whenever I wish to stare, I simply do it. If I do not feel it appropriate, I do not. Her eyes are wary, shy of me, and it is easy to be pleased by the power I have over her.  
  
She leaves the room, obviously uncomfortable. I watch the meanderings of others in the room for a little while, but it is difficult to resist the temptation to perturb the little one again. I move out of the room past the dance floor without seeing her, and reach the bar. Her shadowy presence shines like an illumination from the corner, which I find curious- these Muggles never seem to have that much presence, and yet she draws my attention so speedily. I am slightly puzzled.  
  
I order a drink from the invertebrate at the bar and walk back to my corner to continue my watching. I do not look at the little mouse again. She is unworthy of my attention.  
  
A very little while later, the girl seeks me out. She places herself directly across the way, leaning herself against the wall and avoiding my gaze. I am tempted to laugh. So the little one wants to play? My evening may be interesting after all.  
  
Finally, she meets my look. I am pleased with the way she reacts to my stare. Colour stains her cheeks, and she does not, like so many others, look away. She meets my stare quite openly, so that I can look into the deepest glimmers of her eyes. They are like a rich meal.  
  
A new song begins, this one different to the ones before. It has a deep beat, a soft and lulling one, like warm sheets. It affects the Muggle beneath my gaze. I stare at her, drawing her to me. She closes her eyes, obviously afraid of what I might see in them. It is amazing fun.  
  
When she is halfway across the dance floor, she opens her eyes again. They are deep, heated. Her lips are slightly parted as she moves to the song. I am amused by her reaction.  
  
Looking into her eyes as she moves like this is like making love to her. She does every thing I want, that little creature trapped in my eyes. I remotely hear the words of the song around me, spoken by some whispery creature with too much confidence in her own power.  
  
Eventually I become aware that the power is shifting. The Muggle moves her body in only slight movements, obviously frightened of dancing in front of me, but these movements are more entrancing than the crude gyrations of those around her. She shifts her body slightly, luxuriating in the movement, languid in the heavy beat of the music. It is like she is absorbed by every small movement. Every small gesture grates against me. Whenever she moves, I tingle in reaction.  
  
I look back up at her eyes, and am startled to see the smile lying there. The creature realises what she is doing. I try to pull away, but for some reason am unable; the music that grips her has strung me up too. She moves her body a little more drastically, and I am forced to hold back a gasp. It is as intense as if she were moving her body against me, not a whole metre away.  
  
The beat of the song grows even more intense in my mind as the little Muggle moves in front of me. She catches her lip between her teeth, and I grit mine to avoid stepping forward and performing the act for her. She moves her arms up her body and over her head, and an image in her mind forms of silken ropes and iron bedsteads.  
  
She cannot know what she is doing. She cannot have this power. The Muggle alcohol I have consumed has addled my brain.  
  
With an effort, I pull myself back from the abyss opening in front of me. Disappointment blossoms in her eyes, and I hold back a sneer.  
  
I withdraw my interest, and watch as she glances around. She has obviously realised what she has done- what was I thinking? She is like the rest. All of these bodies in here, trapping and being trapped. It is all they came here to do.  
  
I leave as quickly as I can, returning to my Muggle hotel.  
  
The next night, I am approaching the club once again. I am damned if I know why. My dreams were haunted and heated, and perhaps it is my physical loneliness that has brought me here. I try not to think about it, even if it is- I do not like to be reminded that my physical needs can control me like other men.  
  
I am walking up the stairs, and happen to glance up, to see the woman standing in front of me. Surprise lights her eyes, as I suppose it does mine. Something flutters in my stomach at the sight of her; standing three steps above me, breath held in anticipation. The moment is dashed as the Muggles behind her urge her onwards to the street. I turn to watch her.  
  
I am out on the street before I realise it. I do not know what I am doing. There are countless Muggles in the place within that would satisfy my physical needs, but for some reason this one is the one that draws me. I see that she has hidden herself from me, and smile to myself. So she is perhaps not the brazen strumpet I assumed her to be last night. Perhaps she is drawn to me for the same reason I am drawn to her; with such intense chemistry, our union could not help but to be pleasurable to us both. I am pleased to think so; though I deplore my physical needs, the idea of giving and taking pleasure with an equal is not an unpleasant one. It has been so long since I have found an equal even in physical need that the thought is a pleasant surprise.  
  
I wander to a bar that I know will be quiet enough at this hour. My visits to Muggle clubs are never for a long duration, as the sweat and noise is not to be endured, but I do occasionally find a quiet bar like this one quite relaxing. I have no doubts about the Muggle woman following me.  
  
She eventually enters, her hair windswept and her face brought to a blush by the wind. I surprise myself with the thought that she may be quite beautiful. I haven't even thought of that word in a long, long time.  
  
She does not see me, and that is quite fine. I get the bartender to set before her a glass of wine, a twin to my own. It is a fine red, and I am interested to see if this Muggle can appreciate such a thing.  
  
She looks around to see who has given her this drink, and her eyes light on me, turning wary under my gaze. I know what she is thinking; there seems to be a tendency in the Muggle world to obtain flesh by drugs and deception; I have never found it necessary. I wonder what she will do.  
  
She seems to sense my challenge. Slowly, she picks up the glass, warming the wine with her fingers. She lifts the glass to her lips, inhales its aroma before taking a sip. I watch the pleasure that dawns on her face as it travels over her palate, watch the delicate movement of her throat as she swallows.  
  
The wine has left moisture on her lip; it draws my gaze more surely than a magnet. Her tongue darts out to taste, to clean the wetness away, only to leave her full lips wet and moist. Considering the thoughts this provokes, if I were a weaker man, I would groan.  
  
She meets my gaze, and I am again surprised by the unwavering stare she returns. I take pleasure in her eyes awhile, before taking my turn.  
  
Her eyes dart over my hand as I raise my glass to my lips. I take a small swallow and feel her gaze almost physically as it darts to my lips, to my throat, to my face. Her looks are like kisses. I wonder what her lips will feel like under mine- it actually intrigues me, though I have never been one for the act of kissing. There is too much give in it.  
  
The door bashes open and a rowdy group of Muggles stagger in. I am surprised and displeased to see them approach my little mouse, and begin to converse with her. I look away, disappointed. These brutes jar with my fantasy; the image I have built up of the little Muggle does not fit with these things near her. I have let myself wander away with a fancy.  
  
I feel her gaze on me, and force myself to keep my eyes from her. She cannot know what she has done.  
  
Eventually, my curiosity forces me to look. She is talking to a large male Muggle, one with a stupid smile on his face. He leans over her and tries to engage her attention, which keeps wandering over to me. She gives him shy smiles, hesitatingly answering, unwillingly communicating.  
  
Then she smiles. A true smile, a genuine smile. The curve of her lips lights up her face. She is giving her smile to him. I do not believe I have ever received one.  
  
Her male friend is tugged away by the lure of one of her female friends, gyrating alone in the middle of the floor. He is guided by his waistband, no doubt, to her amply curved side.  
  
My Muggle watches as the rest of the group begins to dance. They are horrendously drunk, the lot of them, not even bothering to listen to the beat of the music they are dancing to. My Muggle seems to feel embarrassed for them. I smile inwardly. Her handsome brute is just as awkward as the rest of them; can she be attracted to such gracelessness?  
  
She looks up at me with angry eyes, then withdraws her gaze. Obviously she means to punish me. I want to laugh.  
  
She orders a drink from the barman, a brandy. I watch as she delicately warms the glass with her fine fingers, then see her take a sip. Like the alcohol she is drinking, watching her drink this time is even more intense than before. I do want her so, I have to admit it, though I fight it. Perhaps she wants me more.  
  
She looks up at me suddenly, her eyes flaming and intense. Her hand toys with a box of matches, picking it up, dropping it on the wood. Her eyes dart down to the glass of brandy in front of her, and I have an image of flames in my mind. The brief moment passes, pushed away as she pushes the brandy away and takes her head in her hands. She comes to a decision, gathers her things, and makes to leave.  
  
I am startled by her movement. This was not an expected turn. I watch as she attempts to talk to her friends, and is grabbed by the savage on her left. I watch as he manhandles her, my fists clenched on the bar. He touches her as if she is a doll, an unliving thing. I alone sense the fire in her, restrained by politeness.  
  
The brute flings her aside, and she stumbles. My hand goes for my wand- it is not right that my little one should fall. She was not made to display such an inept movement. She should be graceful. My hand drops as the husky male she was talking to catches her. I am jealous of his hands on her.  
  
I cannot stand to watch the machinations of this world any longer. I should not have stayed in the Muggle world this long; I should have left for Hogwarts this morning, as I had been meaning to do.  
  
I am about to get up to leave when I see my Muggle dancing with another woman. The blonde she is with is vulgar in her movements, obviously trying to attract the gazes of the men in the room with her swaying. My Muggle withstands it, giving her friend the spotlight, yet her movements are all the more sexy. The very fact that she lets the other woman move against her, never giving anything herself, is where the sensuality lies. Her movements are as enticing as they were last night, as entrancing and seductive.  
  
I see a glimmer in her friend's eye and understand what is about to happen. I step forward just in time to catch my Muggle as she falls, clasping my hands around her waist. In the shock of the movement I am stabbed with electricity; her body is soft and supple, her ribs delicate beneath my fingers, her fine shoulders pressing into my chest. An image of running my fingers on the white skin of a fragile spine bursts into my head.  
  
Eventually, she begins to stand, pulling away slightly. I do not let go because I do not want to. She says something, and I do not bother to listen to the words, simply tasting the soft tones of her voice. She looks up at me, and I see fright in her eyes, mixed with a pleasure that I feel myself. My hands travel to her waist, and I catalogue every friction in the movement.  
  
Her hands flatten against my chest, pushing slightly, and I hold back a shiver. I have not felt such physicality in a long time. She realises that I am not letting her go, and a fine blush stains her cheeks, and again the word `beauty' flickers into my mind. I push it aside.  
  
She opens her mouth as if to speak, but does not. I trace her lips with my eyes, imagining what that mouth will taste like, imagining what her cries will feel like under my lips.  
  
She speaks, interrupting my thoughts.  
  
`I'm sorry. My friend-'  
  
I do not want to hear this. I pull her to me, roughly, placing her body against mine, pulling her away from the crowd. We are swaying slightly to the sultry song that is broadcast over the speakers. Her body moves against mine; delicious movement.  
  
She feels the power between us, I know it, for she tries to pull away. I sneer at her; Muggles are entirely predictable, and this one's actions should not disappoint me so. She feels my disdain and anger flushes her face, exactly as I expected. She sees this also, and her eyes drop.  
  
Then she does something I do not expect. I feel her hands flatten on my chest, feel the warmth of her little fingers against me. My eyes are drawn to her hands as they move up my chest, so slowly, so slowly. My heartbeat comes faster, my breath quickens. I want only release from this intensity, yet I don't.  
  
When her hands finally reach my shoulders, I feel like I have been touched with those delicate fingers on every inch of my skin. I look up, into her eyes, and see what her innocent expression cannot truly hide; she feels exactly what I feel. Her eyes are hot. In them, I see bodies nakedly writhing; I imagine plunging myself inside her so deeply that she screams with pleasure.  
  
I am displeased. I cannot let this little Muggle have such power over me; it is ridiculous. I am furious with her childish ploys.  
  
`Do you think you are playing?' I ask. Her eyes flicker, startled, but she attempts bravery. I will dash it aside. `Do you really think you can play with me?' I draw her up against me. I am tempted to shake her in my anger.  
  
She looks deeply into my eyes, looks into my fury. How can this little mouse possibly know what I have seen, what I have done? How can she presume to hold power over me?  
  
She pulls back, and I release her, relieved to be released from her own physicality.  
  
She draws back her hand, and slaps me across the face. My head flings to the side. All I can do is stare in surprise.  
  
`You know nothing about me. Nothing at all. You hadn't even bothered to look for my intelligence before you insulted it. You know nothing about me because you assumed I was something else.' She is backing away from me, torturing me with her absence. `Goodbye,' she says quietly, turning and walking out of the door.  
  
I am left to stand in stunned silence while the stares of her friends follow me. I leave, before my anger leads me to strike the whole place down.  
  
***  
  
My dreams are haunted by the dark man. I cannot get him out of my mind, though I resent him. I sense there is something left undone.  
  
***  
  
I cannot get the Muggle woman from my mind. She is haunting me as surely as if she were a ghost, nay, she is a siren. My nights are spent in hot silence.  
  
I return to the Muggle world as soon as I can. I will not approach her, I will not demean myself so, but I need to see her. She is found easily enough, things being easy to obtain with a touch of a wand and a little gold. I find her with much time to spare.  
  
My first glimpse of her is like a drink of water. The sight of her runs over me, both soothing and electrifying. She is performing the simple act of walking down the street, head bent against the wind, but her hair flows back from her head with such charm that I have difficulty breathing.  
  
I leave her presence immediately. The power she has over me frightens me.  
  
***  
  
I cannot bring myself to go out looking for him again; for some reason I know he will not be there. It feels as if he is no longer in the world. Maybe it's true. Maybe I conjured him out of my loneliness. Even in loneliness I created a man I cannot possibly have, a man I do not know the reason for wanting.  
  
***  
  
I watch her at night. Standing in the street, I see when her light goes out; far too early for one who is so young. Why is she not out with her friends, like so many others? I wonder at myself for being concerned. I must be going insane. Insane from lack of sex, perhaps, is it possible? I would grasp at this excuse, though I know it is not true. I am genuinely interested in this Muggle, and I am at a loss as to why.  
  
***  
  
Claudia and Rick leave right after lunch. Their affection for each other is obvious, as is their happiness at Claudia's pregnancy. I doubt they will last through the stress of it all, I doubt they really love each other, I doubt Rick will be faithful to a wife he cannot be satisfied with, like so many men. I am insanely jealous.  
  
I walk back inside after waving them goodbye, and my house feels cold.  
  
***  
  
I see the sadness on her face as she raises her hand to her friends. Is this sadness for the male Muggle, so entranced with her friend still? Is it something else?  
  
***  
  
I sleep and dream of the dark man. His kisses are fire.  
  
***  
  
I dream of the woman. I find bliss in her body, bliss beyond physical pleasure. Her lips seek out mine again and again, as if she relishes my kisses. No woman has wanted them as much before; this one seems to positively treasure them. When we are spent, her tears drop on my shoulder.  
  
***  
  
Loneliness doesn't cease. 


	2. Don't get excited about me!

Hi anyone who bothers to read this-  
  
I'm sorry, but this isn't a new chapter to my story. I had intended the story to be over and inconclusive, and I know that's frustrating, but that's Snape. However, I do have a rather nasty little idea that may be a good sequel... I'm not sure about it yet, am running it through my brain and do not at the moment have time to write it.   
  
This is merely a song that I have always liked, and which I thought fitting for the feelings evoked at the end of my story (for me, anyway). The version I love is sung by Cassandra Wilson (oh boy. If you don't know this brilliant jazz/blues soloist, then get to know her. She sings sooo beautifully). Get a copy of it if you can- it's very soulful, the composition of it. Anyway, thought you'd like it. I forget who wrote it, so I apologise for not putting a credit in.  
  
PS To all the people who reviewed- I LOVE YOU!!! No, I mean that. Really. If I don't get a review, I don't know that someone's read my story. So in my little world, only 8 people have read this, and that makes me feel a little sad. Sorry. Go ahead, read.  
  
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS   
  
  
You don't know   
What love is  
Until you've learned the meaning of the blues,  
Until you've loved the love you had to lose,  
You don't know what love is.  
  
You don't know how lips hurt  
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost,  
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost  
You don't know what love is.  
  
Do you know how a lost heart fears  
The thought of reminiscing?  
And how lips that taste of tears  
Lose their taste for kissing...  
  
You don't know how hearts burn  
For love that cannot live yet never dies,  
Until you reached each dawn with sleepless nights  
You don't know what love is.  
  
You don't know what love is  
Until you've learned the meaning of the blues,  
Until you've learned the love you had to lose,  
You don't know   
What love is. 


End file.
